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October 2, 2015

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On my way home from work last night I texted my wife asking her if she could record a couple of shows I forgot to set the DVR for.  Her text response was the best power play of all time.

“I can’t.  I have one of these kids on my boob.”

I immediately texted back an apology for making a selfish request and raced home as quickly as I could to get to the TV remote.  While hitting the DVR record button to ensure that I wouldn’t miss Married To Medicine, I thought about her text and realized that my wife’s milk producing boobs have given her the ultimate unbeatable excuse.  I’ve always been the King of excuses and now I’ve been dethroned.

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(Can you take a break from nourishing my children and make me a sandwich?)

This excuse puts all the power in her hands.  It feeds my guilt and it’s something I regularly witness her do, making it hard to call bullshit on when I’m asking her for something when I’m not around.  But, like me, my wife is crafty.  I’m sure it’s occurred to her that this excuse gives her power, and I’m certain she’s using it to her advantage. Neither of us are the type that are beyond using a power for gain.

When I text her asking for favors is she really breastfeeding one of the kids? Here’s what I’m starting to imagine when she texts, “I can’t.  I have one of these kids on my boob.

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“I can’t.  I have a kid on my boob.”

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“I can’t.  I have a kid on my boob.”

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“I can’t.  I have a kid on my boob.”

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I can’t.  I have a kid on my boob.”

And she’s smart enough to not play the twin card and say she’s got two kids on her boobs.  I’ve seen how that plays out.  Having the ability to breast feed two babies at the same time requires supernatural powers that even the creators of ‘Heroes Reborn’ haven’t dreamed up.

I’m at a loss to think of an excuse I can use to defeat “I have a kid on my boob.” The only things that come to mind are unpleasant.

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“I can’t.  I have kidney stones.”

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“I can’t.  I promised to support a friend performing at an Open Mic Night.”

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“I can’t.  I’m being held hostage.”

Not only are all these excuses horrible options, I don’t know if they even beat hers.  Is it possible she actually went to the trouble of having these babies because she knew breastfeeding them would get her out of all my annoying requests?  Did she go through an elaborate IVF process and carry these two boys for nine months to get out of being responsible for knowing if I actually have clean socks?

Life is an elaborate house of cards and I don’t put anything past her.  I just wonder how long she’ll milk this.

Jamie Lynne Grumet of Los Angeles and her son, age 3.

Least Favorite Child Results

September 30 – Least Favorite is Arthur.  Arthur wasn’t really a problem, it’s that Charles has discovered something that will occupy his time for hours.

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This is a pretty elaborate bouncy seat.  In fact it looks like he’s bouncing around in a portable altar waiting to marry people or dispense last rites as needed.  Sure, when he’s in this, you’re going to hear the bells and whistles, along with the non stop mantra, “Monkey’s love bananas!” whenever he touches the banana block, but it’s a small price to pay for the ability to abandon one’s parenting duties for 60 minutes.  God job, Charles!

October 1 – Least Favorite is Charles.  I can count on Arthur to sleep through the night like a passed out fraternity sophomore, but Charles is a different story.  He’s yet to figure out what carrying the Hurley genetic code really means.  It means holding onto every last precious moment of sleep as if it may go away forever.  No, one likes a morning person, Charles.

Total Days as Least Favorite Child

Charles – 52 Days

Arthur – 45 Days

Tied as Least Favorite – 1 Day

Days Since Neil Patrick Harris Received My Post and Hasn’t Responded – 75

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It’s Casual Friday, Neil.  Wear something comfy.

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